Isolde hopped from the carriage.
She shielded her eyes, squinting up at the manor house. Roberge Lund's home looked exactly as she'd expected it to: snow-covered turrets, wrought iron railings, green vines, a burbling fountain... It could have been a crumbling ancestral home, she thought, if it wasn't for the scent of fresh paint. Something new disguised as something old. Next to her, Julian shoved a dagger into his sock.
"Are you sure about this?" Julian murmured.
He was assessing the manor house, his blue eyes sweeping over the windows and doors. A winter breeze ruffled his dark hair. Isolde shivered, burrowing further into her fur cloak.
"We don't have a choice," she said.
Julian's gaze narrowed. "I don't trust him."
"We need the support." Isolde toyed with the cold metal ring at her throat. "The red brothers have the men."
He turned. "If anything happens..."
"Jules—"
"Run," Julian said firmly, ignoring her interjection. "Even if that means leaving me behind. Promise me, Iz."
He took her hands. Isolde stared down at their gloves — black and white, nestled together like piano keys — and something in her stomach tightened. Not anxiety, Isolde realized with some surprise, but something else. Something primal.
"We'll be fine," Isolde murmured.
Julian's grip tightened. "Isolde."
There was an edge to his voice. When Isolde looked up, Julian was watching her with steady eyes. Strange, she thought, to see Julian without a bow sprouting from his shoulder like some bizarre third limb. But they'd agreed that bringing loaded weapons into Roberge Lund's home would send the wrong message; it was, as Julian's mother Malissa had pointed out, far better to bring concealed ones instead.
"Fine," Isolde said. "I promise."
Julian dropped her hands. "Good." He turned for the house. "Stay behind me. I'm not sure if Roberge was joking about the attack dogs."
They climbed the stone steps. Julian raised the iron knocker, and the door creaked as it swung open. Isolde peered into the house beyond — a dimly-lit entrance hall, with a smattering of black-and-white tiles like a chessboard — and raised her eyebrow.
"Okay," she murmured. "This is creepy."
Julian took a step forward. "Stay close."
"I wouldn't step on that, if I were you," a voice called.
A figure emerged from the shadows. He was dressed in a bottle-green smoking jacket, and his gold spectacles winked in the darkness. His blond hair was freshly washed and combed. But it was the posture that gave it away, Isolde thought; he stood with his shoulders in a sharp line, like a knife prepared to slice through flesh. Only rich men stood like that.
Roberge Lund.
"Rigged tiles," Roberge continued, nodding at the tiled flooring. "If you step on the wrong square, the room will flood with nightmare somnium. You'll be dead in moments."
"Must make it difficult to accept parcels," Julian said.
His voice was pleasant, but a muscle fluttered in his jaw. Roberge stuffed his hands into his pockets.
"Follow the red tiles," Roberge offered. "That's the trick."
Isolde took a step forward. Julian held out a hand.
"I'll go first," he said, his voice low.
Isolde glanced up. Roberge was watching them with an unreadable expression, his head cocked to the side. Isolde thought of the grey cat that had once prowled the convent, assessing the mice that scurried under the floorboards. Which was the fastest? Which was the weakest? The cat made its decision just before it struck.
A pulse pounded in her throat.
"No." Isolde pushed his hand away. "I will."
Julian's face darkened. "Isolde—"
"Wait here," she said.
Isolde took another step forward. There were five red tiles, she realized, laid out in a zig-zag pattern. Each tile was just big enough to have one foot on it. She'd have to jump between them. And if she missed...
Her stomach knotted.
Well. She couldn't miss.
Isolde hiked up her skirts, assessing the first jump. Then she leapt. For a terrible moment, Isolde teetered on the tile, her glass leg flailing, arms pinwheeling wildly. Then she regained her balance, and Julian exhaled. Her heart slammed in her ears.
Right.
Four more to go.
She moved faster now, hopping from tile-to-tile, her pulse pounding in her ears. Roberge's eyes glittered as she approached. Standing this close to him, Isolde could see the smooth skin of his forehead, the hard muscles of his shoulders. He held out a hand.
"Interesting," Roberge murmured. "You're shorter than I thought you'd be."
"And you're much younger," Isolde said.
Isolde pushed past his hand. She could hear the dull smack of Julian's feet hitting the tile, and she forced herself not to turn. She knew people like Roberge. Any sign of weakness — any flicker of doubt — would be like offering a slab of bloody meat to a starving hound. Slowly, Roberge lowered his arm.
"I may be the oldest brother," Roberge said, "but you'll find I'm remarkably well-preserved." He turned, waving a lazy hand as he strode down a corridor. "Come through. I've laid the table for tea."
They followed him into a small library. A round table was laid with a silver teapot and cups, delicate lemon cakes and smoked-salmon-and-cream-cheese sandwiches. No servants, Isolde noted, although perhaps they weren't necessary if you never entertained guests; the only other resident of the room was a large dog sprawled in front of the fireplace, his ears twitching as he dreamed.
"So," Roberge said. "What can I do for you?"
He poured the tea. Julian — who was eyeing the axes and swords on the wall — took a step closer to Isolde. She cleared her throat.
"We need men," Isolde said.
"Ah," Roberge said, raising an eyebrow. "I had no idea that you had such predilections, Your Holiness, but I'm eager to oblige. How many do you require? Two? Three?" He held out a teacup. "Perhaps fewer, if you intend to include Lord Winterthorpe in your activities."
Isolde accepted the teacup. The liquid was scalding hot, burning through the china teacup. Roberge was trying to unsettle her, she realized. Julian stiffened, opening his mouth as if to speak, and Isolde touched his arm.
"I require an army," Isolde said.
Roberge smirked. "Well. To each their own."
Isolde ignored this. "I intend to take the throne from my husband."
"Ex-husband," Roberge said pleasantly, "if the rumours are true. He's disavowed you."
"And yet," Isolde said, "you're still using my title."
Something flickered in Roberge's eyes. Isolde raised the teacup to her mouth, pretended to drink, and set it back in the saucer. Julian — who was now staring at a bookshelf, eyes narrowed — ignored his tea entirely.
Roberge scratched his chin. "Say that I were to provide you with the men. At great personal cost to myself, I might add. What would you give me in return?"
"Your brothers asked for titles," Isolde said.
Roberge gave her the ghost of a smile. "I'm sure they did. Edgar and Devan have always been obsessed with status." He popped a lemon cake into his mouth. "There is nothing more shameful to them than the fact that we were born in a crumbling one-bedroom cottage in Bardan to an unwed milkmaid."
"And you?" Isolde asked.
Roberge shrugged. "I have only one insecurity, and it is my lack of insecurities." He licked powdered sugar from his fingers. "Take that as you will."
Isolde perched on the edge of a chair. She considered Roberge's fancy smoking jacket, the way his manor house — so clearly new — was designed to look like something old, and she felt a pang of sympathy. There was a difference, she knew, between not caring what other people thought of you and not wanting to care. The former was much harder to achieve.
Julian looked away from the bookshelf. "I suppose you want money, then."
"No." Roberge shook his head. "Not that."
Julian crossed his arms. "Jewels? Ships?"
Roberge waved a hand. "I have no interest in manmade trinkets. What I want is something much more... specific."
His eyes lingered on Isolde's mouth. Roberge's gaze was heavy, his eyes half-lidded, and something cold slithered through her chest. Too late, she understood exactly what the older man wanted from her. Bile filled her mouth.
Isolde rose. "I think we're done here."
Julian copied her movement. "Isolde?"
He was frowning, glancing between her and Roberge. Her heart pounded.
"Come on, Julian," Isolde said. "Let's go."
She started for the door. She'd hardly cleared the table before Roberge spoke, his voice dangerously soft. "It's a generous offer. I'd think it over carefully."
Julian paused. "You haven't made us an offer."
Silence filled the room. Roberge was still looking at her intently, swirling his tea around the delicate white cup. Isolde was seized by the sudden realization that he could smash it, that he could shatter it all over the carpet if he wished to. This was his home, after all. His territory. He could do whatever he liked.
"Yes," Roberge said finally. "I have."
Julian looked bewildered. "What the devil are you on about, Lund?"
Roberge inclined his head. "Ask your Empress."
Both men turned to look at her. Cold sweat beaded Isolde's neck. In the corner, the dog was stirring, raising its large head to look around the room with flat eyes. When Isolde spoke, her throat felt dry.
"He wants to marry me," she said.
The colour drained from Julian's face. He turned to Roberge, his posture stiff.
"Is that true?"
Roberge shrugged a shoulder. "Why not? I have the wealth. You have the title. A bottle of poison slipped in the emperor's wine, a discrete assassin in the night..." He adjusted his spectacles. "It would never have to come to a battle. Think of how many lives you could spare, Empress."
"Isolde," Julian said.
His blue eyes were so bright that they looked almost white, like the sky threatening a storm. Roberge took a sip of tea.
"Hush," Roberge said. "The empress is thinking."
Isolde shook her head. "I can't."
She'd known it all along. Known it from the very first second that Roberge had looked at her like that, as if she were a chocolate cake that he was dying to sink his teeth into. Phantom insects crawled along her skin.
"You can't," Roberge said slowly, "or you won't?"
Isolde held his gaze. "I will not marry you."
Something flickered across Roberge's face — a flash of genuine emotion — but then he turned away to set down his teacup and it was gone. He clicked his fingers, and the dog padded to his side. The hound was drooling, Isolde realized; she could just make out the flash of sharp fangs and dark gums.
"I was afraid you'd say that," Roberge said.
His voice was very calm. Isolde watched, her heart pounding, as Roberge fished in his pocket, producing a small silver object. Julian raised a hand and then abruptly lowered it again. Reaching for a bow that wasn't there, Isolde realized.
"What is that?" Julian demanded.
Roberge patted the dog's head. "I'm afraid this tea party is about to become markedly more unpleasant."
Julian took a step forward. "Put that down."
Roberge turned to Isolde. "Apologies, Your Holiness. It's nothing personal."
He raised the object to his mouth. A sharp, high-pitched noise filled the room, and Isolde clapped her hands over her ears instinctively. The dog whined. She was dimly aware of Julian grabbing her arm, of being pulled towards the door, but her eyes were fixed on the bookcase; the books were moving sideways, sliding open to reveal a passageway. Men poured through the opening like grains of rice from a punctured sac. Men, Isolde realized, her blood running cold, wearing banners with the image of a white bear gazing up at a winter sky: the Dolphenberg family crest.
Slowly, Isolde lowered her hands.
"Iz." Julian's breath was hot in her ear. "We have to run. We have to—"
"It's too late." Isolde's voice sounded dull, even to her own ears. "He has us surrounded, Jules. It's over."
Julian sucked in a breath. "He? But you don't think..."
Isolde shook her head.
The last figure stepped through the opening. His dark blond hair was longer than she recalled, curling around the nape of his neck, but he walked with the same swagger. As if the entire room belonged to him.
"My wayward wife," Halson said lazily, "and my traitorous cousin. How lovely to see you again."